Requiem
by drama fixated
Summary: He took her hand in his, not surprised at how cold it was. So cold it was that it practically burned his fingertips. Reposted. Tom x Ginny


Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Other citations will be made where necessary.

Author's Note: Angst. Yay. Set during COS. Alternate scene. Also angst which happens to be confusing and indecipherable. "He" is Tom, "she" is Ginny. Obviously. "The boy" is Harry. This is what happens when you listen to "Someday" by Nickelback some thirty times.

And for those who are wondering – yes, this was posted before, but I took it down for editing. So hopefully this is better.

Much thanks to **Sandra **for forcing (kidding!) – ahem, encouraging – me to write this. This goes to her.

* * *

He set a blanket over her body, covering her completely, sheltering her from the cold and the chill. After making sure that she was warm enough to not be frozen to death (or catch a cold), he sat down beside her on the cold stone floor. Rarely, if never, would he be doing this. Yet for some inexplicable reason he wanted to. Because her heart was cold. Because her heart was like his. Because her heart was his.

Dimly he could hear the sounds of water dripping – _pitter-patter_ing on the floor and still silence. So this is all it has come down to, he thought, looking down at her. One death, one sacrifice. That's all it'll take. Just one death. _Her_ death. Just one sacrifice. _His _sacrifice. And that would be it.

He studied the prone figure before him. So pale, she was – like a fragile doll. A fiery-headed, innocent doll. Who happened to be his first victim – and his prey that had fallen into his hands without a cinch. Yet, despite her being innocent, she understood how he felt – she understood who he was, how he felt, what he was. She understood him. Somehow, he just couldn't do this. He couldn't do this to her, to him. He was a part of her. She was a part of him. They were inseparable – one from another. Without one, the other couldn't live. One couldn't live with the other. That's how she and he were. But he knew he had to, for the sake of him living. How twisted this was. A strange kind of twisted that prompted him to think what would he do then, if he lived? No, _when_ he lived? A twisted oblivion this was, he finally decided. He couldn't live without her, yet he could live if she died. Which she was going to. Very soon. How utterly hopeless this situation was. He was in a bind. A bind that he could never get out of. Even when he was "Voldemort" and not "Tom Marvolo Riddle" (how he _detested_ that name, a loath so indescribable he had for that cursed name), as it turned out, he would never get out of it – as long as he lived. He needed her, and she needed him. They needed each other.

She was his sacrifice, he realized. His one and only – his sole sacrifice. She, whom he couldn't think of anything else besides her, just vibrantly _her _– he couldn't let her die. No reason for it – he just simply couldn't. There was no power within him – nor any power left – to do it. He just couldn't. He couldn't let a spunky, free-spirited girl like her die. To be gone, just like that.

So he was left for himself to die, and for her to live. Any other simpler choice, he thought, would only come down to this one. And only this one.

He kneeled over her. So it's my death after all in the end, he thought with a bitter smile on his lips. A death that was well deserved in the end. My death. And only my death.

He took her hand in his, not surprised at how cold it was. So cold it was that it practically burned his fingertips. A burning sensation was all that he could feel – and welcome – now. Was this love? Was this a twisted sort of love? Was this living? Living when you loved and were being loved back? That he didn't know, nor could define – for once in his life.

So this was his requiem. His, not hers, in the end. And when the time came, he would gladly let his lives be taken – his past one, his present one. And she would live. He would die. And then they would both live. Living a twisted fairy tale that wasn't a fairy tale at all. But in the end, he would live – live for her, live in her. Live for her. That he would do. And he accepted it. Like he always did. He would live for her.

The boy would take his life, and that would be it. He was well prepared for it – he always was. And he was now.

_I love you Ginny_. The end.

This was his requiem.


End file.
